Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.

I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.

But time in only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there'll be mushrooms, fairy-ring mushrooms in the grass, sweetest of all fungi.

Poetry demands a different material than prose. It uses another facet of the same fact... the spontaneous conformation of language as it is heard.

No opinion can be trusted; even the facts may be nothing but a printer's error.

The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.

A poem is a small machine made out of words.